Ordinary, Everyday Love
by tinyfierce
Summary: A collection of Arishawke drabbles. Some set during the events of the Arrowhead, others in a more modern AU, anything goes! Largely a result of prompts from tumblr, and any mix of hilarious, heartwrenching, or sex-tastic, but all about Hawke's relationship with the painted giant. Rating M to cover my bases for whatever may go here.
1. Movie Night

Hey, folks!

So, welcome to my collection of drabbles! If you'd like to offer a prompt, I'd hugely prefer it if you popped over to tumblr ( tinyfierceDOTtumblrDOTcom) to do so! Anything is welcome - and I'm excited to finally have time to flex my 'sprinting muscles,' as it were, and get into some short bits that have been digging around into my head for ages.

That out of the way, enjoy. =)**  
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* * *

**Anonymous asked:** "More of the modern AU?"**  
**

* * *

"_Tea_ and _a cheese platter_?" Hawke stared down at the ludicrously expensive Moser coffee table, an artfully arranged sea of orange, white, and gold proudly staring up at her from the polished surface. "_That's_ what you came up with when I put you in charge of movie night snacks?"

"You disapprove of my choice," the Arishok rumbled from his seat on the sofa, casually crossing one leg over the other. He already held one steaming mug in hand, a custom-made self-warming kettle holding hours' more worth of what promised to be rooibos on the table.

"A hundred-dollar plate of cheeses I can't even recognize?" She threw up her hands, marching herself into the penthouse's immaculate kitchen. "We're watching a DVD on your couch, not opening an art gallery."

She heard the gentle _clack_ of her lover replacing the mug on the table, massive footsteps muffled by the plush carpeting. "_Our _sofa," he corrected her, watching from the marble countertop as she rifled through the cabinets. "The agreed-upon arrangement stipulated that should the choice of film be yours, so should the choice of refreshment be. Yet you gave no further instructions than 'not from a bakery.'"

"Yes," Hawke called up from half-deep into a set of shelves, "otherwise we would've ended up with an enormous German Chocolate cake. _Again._"At his displeased grumble, she smiled to herself. Left to his own devices, the Arishok would throw them both to the mercy of the diabetes gods. "I want microwave popcorn," she declared as she checked boxes. "A lot of it."

He snorted. "Greasy," he sneered, "and cheap."

"_Yes._ Cheap_,_ disgusting, and _glorious_." Triumphant, she emerged from the standing pantry with a gaudy blue box in hand. Ripping one package open, she tossed it into the microwave and set the timer. As it began to spin on the tray, she turned to the man of the house with satisfaction written broadly across her face. "You don't have to have any," she informed him, "but I _will_ be eating it on your sofa."

"'Our,'" he reminded her a second time, "as you seem to have difficulty recalling." His eyes followed her as she leaned back against the island to watch the waxy bag expand through the glowing window.

"I know." She stared at the popcorn for a few long moments, tapping her fingers, before turning to look at him. In a few short steps, she had crossed the kitchen to lean over the counter and cup his face in her hands, planting an affectionate kiss over his frown. "I know, all right?"

He made a noise in his throat, but said nothing.

* * *

Time found them settled among overstuffed cushions, reclining into the luxury of the fabric as an enormous explosion lit up the screen. The cheese platter sat re-covered and abandoned in favor of several ready-to-eat bags of molten salted oil and popped kernels, which were scattered and steaming up the table's immaculate polish.

Having emptied one bag's contents into a giant bowl, Hawke sat cross-legged, gleefully plucking at the buttery prize in her lap.

As a large copper-tinted hand reached over and took a handful, a grin completely unrelated to the movie wove across her face.

"Say _nothing,_" he growled.

"Wasn't gonna."


	2. Lessons in Etiquette

**elaine-shepard asked: "**I cannot for the life of me think of a serious prompt, so have this: Hawke introduces the Arishok to her mother and explains their relationship."

Running with the idea of the prompt. I think that Leandra'd be smarter than anyone gives her credit for, really.

* * *

Leandra wasn't sure if she should drop her packages and scream or drop her packages and grab the nearest vase to smash over the enormous horned head of the qunari that was sitting in her favorite sofa.

His back was to her, seemingly blissfully unaware of her terrified presence. Brassy golden horn bands gleamed in the firelight, and he had stretched one arm out lazily across the richly upholstered back. Even if he did have fine taste in jewelry, he was a qunari. She'd heard the stories about them in the marketplace – never anything good! - and though they had patched up her daughter over the span of a few months, she'd almost rather that haggard-looking mage with all the feathers gotten it over with in one night. She might not have trusted the man, but even he would have been a sight better than what her daughter had ended up in.

She took a few cautious steps toward the heavy vase, and though the qunari lifted his head, he didn't turn or give any other inclination that he'd heard her. Slowly, she moved to put the parcels down on the table –

"Mother?"

At the sound of her daughter's voice, Leandra nearly jumped out of her skin, purchases tumbling to the floor. "Maker, girl," she scolded, frowning as she watched her armor-clad daughter scoop up the tied paper packages. "Do you need to be so quiet in your own home?"

Placing them neatly on the table, Hawke offered her mother a sheepish grin. "Force of habit?" When she was satisfied that they wouldn't go careening off the edge, she called to the room's other occupant. "Arishok."

He turned, then, and Leandra's breath caught in her throat. He was striking; though she'd seen a fair number of qunari, this one was different. Hawk-gold eyes watched her with interest for a moment before blessedly moving on to Mairead.

"I'll be right back," she promised, "the tea's nearly done steeping."

As he made an acknowledging noise in his throat, Hawke turned back to the hall, her mother hot at her heels.

"_Tea?_" She followed Mairead into the kitchens, disbelief plainly written across her face. "That's the Arishok, isn't it – the leader of all the qunari in Kirkwall – and you're _serving him tea in my sitting room_?"

"Yes, yes, and yes," Hawke answered, calmly pulling the loose leaves from the teapot and setting it on a tray. Leandra noticed with a start that her savage daughter had somehow managed to make tea, a feat she'd never been able to achieve thus far in her life. Furthermore, she had found a tray and – miracle of miracles! - two matching cups, not just drinking whatever it was she pleased out of a bottle.

Although she hated to admit it, the sight had somewhat mollified Leandra's horror at discovering the most feared man in Kirkwall on her prized Orlesian sofa. Somewhat calmer, she lost herself in thought as she fetched the sugar bowl and tongs to add to the tray. "If he is a qunari," she began slowly, "isn't it dangerous for him to leave the docks?"

"He has his ways of not being seen," Hawke replied, pulling down saucers. Her hands hesitated, and a warm smile crossed her face as she set the cups. "When I asked him that same question, he said that my company is worth the risk." She smirked over her shoulder at her mother. "And he's very fond of that particular couch."

His good taste in finery, companionship, and décor plucked at Leandra, as did Mairead's obvious happiness at his visit. The fact that her daughter was _finally_ attempting to learn to entertain company in a civilized manner only served to endear the painted giant to her the slightest bit more.

Sighing in defeat, she opened the pantry and pulled out a wax paper bundle to unfold it, arranging the fruit-filled scones within prettily on a plate and shoving it in front of the would-be hostess. "For Maker's sake, _feed_ a guest," she chided. "If you're going to entertain, do it properly."

She watched Mairead bite back a smile. "Yes, mother."

Strolling back toward the parlor, Leandra smoothed her skirts. "And add a third cup. I want you to introduce me to your friend."

The resulting stunned silence was particularly satisfying.

_"What?!"_


	3. Sink or Swim

******Anonymous asked********: **"Hey! Love the modern Arishawke drabble. Are you still looking for inspiration? What about Arishok throwing Hawke into the water like you referenced in SIFL?"

(For reference, the chapter in question is Chapter 1 of 'Starkhaven is for Lovers,' my Sebastian story.)

* * *

"_You_– !"

Hawke sputtered angrily, splashing and flailing her way over to a splintered, barnacle-ridden dock pole as the Arishok calmly watched from his place at the water's edge.

"I have given you opportunity," he rumbled, "and motivation. You should be thankful for both."

Furious and soaking wet, Hawke knew that the foul stink from the putrid waters of the Kirkwall docks would take days of dedicated scrubbing to clear from her hair and skin. The clothes were a lost cause.

"_Thankful_," she spat. "We'll see how thankful you are when I drag myself out of here and you'll have to live with a walking, talking cesspool following you around!"

"Only should you succeed," he reminded her, "in crossing to the steps and extracting yourself. The odor will be proof of your victory."

She flung a fistful of sludge at him. Unfazed, he merely watched it spatter at his feet, spraying anything in its path with muddy slime.

"Smell that?!" Hawke called, inhaling theatrically. "Yes! Victory smells like piss and cheap ale!" She narrowed her eyes, slowly inching along the rotting wood and reaching toward the next log. "And as soon as I get over there, _so will you_."

"I look forward to it," he replied calmly. "I do not hope you drown."

Hawke fumed, letting her brain devise very creative revenge uses for the sludge she was accruing as she slowly and carefully rage-paddled to the nearest sturdy object.


	4. A Visit From an Old Friend

******Anonymous asked: ********"**Not sure if you still want Hawke/Arishok prompts! If not, then congrats on an excellent new chapter of Starkhaven Is For Lovers! If so: Cadhla (I hope I spelled her name right) comes to visit Hawke briefly, and they examine the differences between her interactions with Sten, and Hawke's interactions with the Arishok."

This was rather fun to write; maybe I should expand on it later?

* * *

"You might be queen, but I've seen you naked."

Hawke leaned back as a large qunari in a proportionately enormous apron plonked a pair of frightening-looking mugs on the table between herself and Cadhla, being careful to avoid the sloshing runover.

The former Cousland smiled, wrapping long, delicate fingers along the handle of her tankard and raising it in a toast. "Over ten years later, and I still have bigger breasts."

Mairead clanked her glass in salute. "Over ten years later, and you still lord that over me."

They drank deeply, as best they could manage with such richness. The mulled wine found in the compound was brewed for qunari, and could render a human unconscious in three mugs flat.

Smirking more than a little at Cadhla's resulting cough, Hawke rolled her shoulders. "Where's the Sten? Reporting in?"

The Warden nodded, wine-induced fit finally subdued. "The Arishok wasn't in Seheron, and he has to report directly. I needed to creep unnoticed through the Free Marches – this was a good opportunity for the both of us." She sipped at her drink again, much more conservatively this time. "Traveling alone is dangerous, even for Wardens, and there's no one I trust with my life more than him."

"So he's going with you to Antiva, then."

Cadhla sighed, her delicate feminine features pulled into a frown. "We need to lay low until I journey back to Denerim. We cannot contract on any more ships; the one we took here was the last."

"Then I'm glad I got your letter in the nick of time." The timing had been opportune, to say the least. "You'll stay with me at the estate, and the Sten's staying here?"

"He stands out less in the compound," the Queen of Ferelden agreed. "And we need to go unseen. Though he's told me much of the Arishok, enough that I hope to meet him." She tapped her fingernails on the table, their polished sheen rather incongruous with the enormous greatsword that rested against the wall beside them. Amber-brown eyes narrowed, she stared at her childhood friend thoughtfully. "You have access to the compound, he must approve of you. How well do you know him?"

Hawke said nothing, choosing instead to take a generous swig of wine as her answer. Cadhla knew her silences and looks; it took less than a moment for realization to light up her face.

"_Bollocks,_" she managed.

"Queens don't say 'bollocks,'" Hawke reminded dully, but Cadhla was unfazed.

"I _am_ queen; I'll say what I damn well please. _Maker_, Mairead!" She leaned her elbows in the table, studying her suddenly less-than-talkative companion intently. "Oh, Andraste's mercy, _Leandra_. I had forgotten– "

"She doesn't know," Hawke insisted, "and I'd appreciate it if, for the time you're here, you referred to him by anything other than name in front of her."

"'Special friend,'" Cahdla offered, "'The Beast from the East,' 'Battering-Ram-Cock-man?'"

Mairead snickered into her drink. How she had missed moments like these with her thoroughbred, beautifully noble, effortlessly _classy_ friend.

"Remind me to introduce you to Isabela when she gets back to town." She leaned her chin on the back of one hand. "She's the filthiest-mouthed pirate to ever sail the seas, I promise."

Cadhla raised one perfect eyebrow, tilting her head. "If this Isabela ever was a frequent patron of Denerim whorehouses," she replied, "I believe you."

Hawke was about to inquire further when a voice like a rockslide caught her attention.

"Kadan."

Both women turned. "Yes?"

It was the Sten who had spoken, standing beside their table and radiating cool from the night air. Hawke started, her eyes glued to the Sten's relatively unadorned skull as her obvious surprise at his appearance commandeered her mouth. "You have no horns!"

"I do not," he replied flatly, crossing his arms across his chest. "Congratulations on having functioning eyesight."

Raising her hands defensively, Hawke attempted to explain. "I've never seen a hornless qunari before, only heard of them or read about their existence." Her eyes brightened as an analogy came to mind. "Like a unicorn! But the complete opposite."

He stared at her for a moment before turning his attention to Cadhla, who said nothing and nonchalantly sipped at her drink.

_Right._

He took a seat on one of the massive benches, armor settling as a steaming mug was placed in front of him.

"I am Sten of the _beresaad_," he rumbled. "The Arishok informs me that you have studied the _antaam_; recite what you know."

Hawke could feel the table's other occupants watching intently as she spoke, using as much of her new language as she could. She talked about the unit's purpose, structure, and expectations, stumbling across the elongated vowels somewhat like what she expected a drunk qunari would sound like.

As she finished, the Sten studied her thoughtfully. "Your information is correct," he conceded. "Your pronunciation is in need of improvement."

Lips pressed between her teeth, Mairead groaned inwardly. "I hear that in chorus every day."

"To hear criticism once is an opportunity," the Sten declared. "Twice is a failure."

A happy sigh pulled Hawke's attention as Cadhla stretched her arms across the table, laying her head on the wood and turning to beam blissfully at her friend. "Ah," she breathed, "It's so _nice_ to see him doing this to someone other than me."

Hawke smiled wearily. "He yells because he cares."

"Don't I know it."


	5. Tchotchkes

**Anonymous asked: **"I know you're hard at work on the next Arrowhead chapter and I would never want to take away from that but... I'd love a drabble from the Arishok's POV to tide me over. Any scene, anywhere. I miss him terribly."

SPEED ARISHAWKE FLUFF COMING RIGHT UP

* * *

He was the Arishok. He never doubted. He never questioned.

He sat on his meditation platform, watching. Observing. Things were as they should have been within the compound: two ashaad having a bout in the arena, a group of elven converts taking a lesson in sorting herbs, a weaponsmith sanding the wood of a polearm.

Things were as they should have been, and yet they were not.

The Qun instructed in the ways of order, of purpose, and condemned chaos. The Arishok knew this, and understood, and followed. Still, one spot of chaos – one tiny, unpredictable ripple in the stillness – had somehow become part of the compound's order.

He was the Arishok, and he would not have allowed another to quell that ripple for anything in Thedas.

She was a human, and she still had much to learn. Though _bas_, she was, at her basest of essence, an exemplar of several core pillars of the qun. Her family was chosen, not born. She continued to hone her skills, despite having become nearly peerless in her surroundings. She faced nothing with half-strength – least of all him.

She was no longer _bas _to many_. Basalit-an_ to some, he knew. And to others–

"_Kadan_."

He acknowledged her as she waved up at him from below, noting the thick sheen of slime and blood halfway up her forearms and spattered violently across the front of her armor. She had returned – things were as they should be.

"Arishok," she called brightly, the broad smile on her face undimmed by the fatigue in her limbs.

If he were ever asked to describe that smile in words, he would have spoken of the sea after a storm, of the sun, of a fire in winter and warm rain in the Seheron spring. And he still would have been unsatisfied.

The Arishok cared nothing for possessions, but could not deny that that smile was _his._

"I just got back from a procurement trip for Fenlin," she informed him, wiping green-streaked palms on a rag hanging from one of her belts. "Lesson learned: when he says to be careful because the plant's juice attracts cave spiders, prepare _before _you start slashing stalks."

The blood was tinged purple, he observed, and solely the beasts'. Hawke was not wounded; she had learned quickly. It was another of her pleasant traits. _Other_ traits, however, he found less-than-desirable.

"I almost forgot," she added quickly, rummaging through her pack. "I brought you something."

Case and point: her habit of compulsively acquiring pointless bits of rubbish. The Arishok frowned as she searched. He had no desire for ripped human trousers or pouches of small, polished stones. How she managed to sell such things was beyond his understanding, nor did he care.

As if reading his thoughts, Hawke smirked. "Not pants this time, I promise." She produced a small, palm-sized object, holding it up for his approval. "See?"

He leaned forward, inspecting the offered object closely. It appeared to be a sun-bleached skull, long and thin, ending in a pointed jaw lined with razor-sharp teeth.

"It's a deepstalker skull," she explained proudly. "Horrid little things."

"It is old," he remarked with disdain, "and not your kill."

"No. But _I_ found it, and thought it might fit in that space on the bookshelf in front of the historical maps."

His eyes narrowed at the prospect of _yet more _clutter. Every horizontal surface in his tent was quickly becoming overrun with such decorative trinkets, tokens of affection, and objects deemed useful for an unspecified future purpose.

He had been mated to a magpie.

Reason, he reminded himself. He would look to the qun for peace of mind, as he always did. He was the Arishok; he questioned nothing. Even this human's eccentricities, no matter her existence relative to his, could provoke him otherwise.

He did not know how she interpreted his silence, but she had somehow deemed it favorable. "It's a reminder that the blasted cretins can _die,_" she declared, "and I'm keeping it."

His sanity, he conceded as he growled an acknowledgement.

She made him question his _sanity_.


	6. Blood and Fishhooks

**Lifeinthefire asked you:** "UGH you're fanfictions make me want to rip my heart out. So perfect. I'm always checking for more 3 I was wondering, if you could write a fic about Hawke falling ill from disease. It would be interesting to see how the arishok would react, seeing as her life is being threatened by something he cannot psychically over power or kill :) KEEP WRITING BRILLIANT WORKS !"

Though it's not the prompt _exactly_, this is a similar idea I had rolling around in my head a while back. Seemed as good a reason as any to scribble it down! Be prepared – it's a long-un.

* * *

Elfroot, eighteen stalks. Deathroot, thirty-seven stalks. Spindleweed, twenty-four stalks. Deep mushrooms, twenty-one sprouts. Felandaris, six cuttings.

Fenlin hummed to himself as he delicately separated the dried stems and leaves, pinning them in bundles of five to the storage netting covering one wall. It was a rare day that he could take the time to inventory his stock with any sort of leisure. Usually he had his hands full with teaching duties, medical emergencies, or purposefully chatting with a certain patient-turned-psuedo-emissary as she absentmindedly did shredding, sorting busywork.

Said newly-minted ambassador was long overdue for one of their witty repartee sessions. Hawke was always good for a laugh - he would readily and lovingly grant her that – and a second pair of hands and a change in the air would be welcome in the dusty, dry Kirkwall afternoon.

He should have learned long ago to be careful what he wished for.

In short order, he heard the rustling of the entrance flap and a muttered curse in the common tongue.

"Hey, Fenlin," she called weakly, the warbling breaks in her voice both very conspicuous and _very_ familiar. "Want to hear a funny story?"

"Depends," he called back, not looking up from his work. "Are you bleeding?"

Silence.

"I'm not _not_ bleeding."

Sighing, he turned – and the smile he had been wearing slid straight for the ground. He was at her side in an instant, leaves and twigs abandoned as he coaxed her to a table. "_Hawke,_" he managed, "what in Thedas did this?"

She winced as she allowed him to help her up to sitting on the sanded wood surface, stripping off layers of her armor as he went. "We raided a slavers' den," she explained as Fenlin examined the lacerations of varying depth and length that formed a crosshatch pattern along any exposed skin. "They might not have been the sharpest sticks in the bundle, but they weren't just going to hand over their property or come quietly."

She grabbed his hand to stop him when he reached for her clothes, and as she gingerly peeled back the edge of her undershirt, he saw the glint of metal. She couldn't pull it any further – a fishhook held it in place, piercing clear through the fabric and well into her skin. As soon as he saw it, a dozen – two dozen, more – appeared all through her arms and legs, their gleam scattered on anything not protected by leather or metal. A few were caught in her hair, and she hissed as he worked them out. They were barbed and bloodied, but thankfully had been kept from penetrating the skin by her thick, unruly curls.

"They were hung on strings from the makeshift ceiling by the hundreds," she continued as his nimble, trained fingers did their work. "We were so busy checking the ground for traps that no one bothered to look up." She offered him a pained half-smile. "Nasty piece of work, but we learned something, right?"  
One hook near her temple induced a flinch, and he pressed a rag to her ear as a trail of blood trickled down from where he had removed it. She took over for his hand quickly – the scratches on her scalp were most certainly _not _the issue.

The healer swore under his breath as he assessed the rest of her body. "They might be small," he admitted, "but they're going to hurt. And if they've nicked anything under the skin or been coated in something, the sharp bits are going to be the least of your problems."

The look on her face said everything. She took a deep, shaky breath, fingers tightening into the rag staunching the blood flow from her head. "Can't say I'm surprised. Why is nothing ever easy?"

"Why is nothing involving _you_ ever easy, you mean?"

That earned him a smirk and the beginning of a retort, but a noise at the entrance caught their attention. One look at the shadow being cast by the light, and Fenlin recognized it instantly.

"Looks like someone still keeps _very_ good tabs on you," he observed as he headed for the flap, motioning for her to stay put.

_Like he ever stopped shadowing her footsteps to begin with,_ he mused, a single hand pulling back the heavy leather and canvas panel.

"_Shanedan_, Arishok," he greeted while blinking in the sun as he turned his head upward to face his massive liege. "To what do I owe this visit?"

The Arishok met his stare in silence, as if both were acknowledging that yes, both knew _precisely_ why he was standing outside the healer's tent, but no, the elf was _not_ moving aside.

"I was informed that Hawke was seen entering the compound injured," he rumbled flatly, "and desire more information on the nature and extent of any damage."

"Understood," Fenlin acknowledged. "I'll write up a detailed report as soon as I'm finished."

The Arishok accepted with a sharp noise in his throat, but made no motion to budge or step in any direction of any sort.

The healer had learned to interpret his silences _ages_ ago, though any simpleton, however unschooled in qunari culture, could have read this one like a book.

"There's nothing more for you to do here," he informed him firmly, crossing his arms. "I'm going to be doing delicate, painful work with a variety of tools."

"I am no healer," the Arishok agreed, though something kept him rooted in place.

A something, Fenlin thought to himself with an equal mix of irritation and amusement, that the painted giant was fully aware of and now acknowledged for its legitimacy. And though he was genuinely happy for his commander, it was getting in the way of this elf doing his damned job.

"Your concern is completely valid," he assured him, green eyes focused with sincerity. "I will hand-deliver the report to you myself, down to the very last scrape and bruise."

The Arishok was nothing if not devoted to efficiency and reason. Just as he was about to turn away, a strained voice called out from within the rust-red tent walls.

"He can stay if he helps," Hawke declared, and it was out of Fenlin's hands.

She smirked up at the warlord from her hunched-over position on the table as he made his way to her side. "You would've left," she prodded, "just like that?"

"I am not of the priesthood," he grunted, eyes traveling the length of her wounds. "I would have served only as a distraction."

A grin wound onto her bloodied face, and she made no effort to hide a snicker.

"This amuses you," he growled, and Hawke leaned to the side as Fenlin set down a tray of instruments beside her.

She gently shook her head, hiding her smirk with a slight turn. "A little elf kicked the mighty Arishok out."

Fenlin stood with one hand on his hip, the other holding a pair of wire cutters menacingly. "Watch who you call 'little,'" he warned. "I'm the one holding the surgical tools."

"Good point." She stared at the sharp implement in his hands for a moment before turning up to him with weary resignation written clearly across her face.

"This is going to hurt like a bitch, isn't it?"

"Afraid so," he apologized, "seeing as they're barbed. We'll have to push the tips through before we cut them off and pull the hooks out." With a sympathetic hand, he pulled her rag-clenching fist away from her head. "You may want to hold onto something."

"Good," Hawke muttered, fiercely grabbing onto one of the Arishok's enormous hands and clutching it like she was drowning. "This is where you can help."

He grunted an assent, adjusting his posture.

_Smart man._

Starting with the least traumatic, those hooks that had already pierced clean through, Fenlin delicately held one in place as he clipped off the pointed, bloodstained tip.

"That wasn't so bad," Hawke said brightly, craning her neck to get a good look. When he simply held up the tiny bit of curved metal, her optimism deflated.

"Oh."

Pulling out the rest of the hook in a long, slow arc, he could feel the suction and skin dragging at it, trying desperately to keep the intrusion. Still, when it hit the tray, he felt his patient let out a long, slow breath.

"On the plus side," he offered as he moved down to the next one, "we can melt these down and re-use them."

"Hur-_rah_," she muttered, and he noticed that her other arm was trembling from effort.

It didn't get any easier.

Less than ten hooks later, and he had exhausted the clean punctures. The first time he had to push a barb through, he winced in sympathy as Hawke stifled a groan through gritted teeth. He knew it was grueling. He knew it was akin to torture. And he also knew that they had no other option.

Each hook was just as bad as the last - shaking, hyperventilating, even dry-retching over a pail from the pain. And all through it, he would catch glimpses of her tiny white hand tucked into a massive copper one. The Arishok had had to brace her a few times, remaining faithfully impassive as he watched various shapes and sizes of repurposed deterrents being plucked out of his precious one's flesh, accumulating in a pool of blood on the tray in front of him.

Fenlin would murmur reassurances and encouragement as he kept pace, always seeming to find a new hook just as he thought he was holding the final one. He'd lost count after thirty; neither he nor Hawke would benefit from knowing anything more than "enough." To Hawke's credit, she hadn't once lashed out or asked to be drugged, relying instead on self-control to keep herself steady and weather the worst of it. The Arishok's influence, he thought as he wiped the pliers on his apron, leaving a bloody streak across the pocket. He only hoped it would last.

"This should be it," he informed them both as a particularly large, bulky hook joined its fellows. "You're through."

Hawke collapsed inward, Fenlin rushing to sink his shoulder under her torso and support her back upright. "She's fainted," he told the Arishok as his leader's forearm wrapped around the front of her shoulders. "She needs to be lying down until– "

"I'm all right," she gurgled, clumsily attempting to disentangle herself from the two. "I was only out for half a second."

"You were still _gone,_" the healer pointed out, "and you need a saarebas. I'm going to go send for one." He turned to the Arishok. "Try to keep her in one place, if you can."

"I don't need a saarebas," Hawke protested, struggling to hop off of the table despite the intervention of a warlord easily twice her size. "Just give me a few hours to rest."

"You could have been _posioned_," Fenlin reminded her with a stern glare, "and I'm sure those slavers didn't keep all their hooks polished and rust-free. The risk that something _else_ will happen is worse than the damage the hooks did."

"I've been poisoned before. I've accidentally poisoned _myself_, for Maker's sake– "

"Hawke," Fenlin began slowly, tone edged with warning. "I'm not letting you walk out of here."

"But– "

Just as he was about to cut her off, a voice like a rockslide beat him to it.

"You will obey the healer," the Arishok issued calmly, "or I will remind you of this moment as you lay dying of fever."

That did it. Hawke locked stares with her horned, equally stubborn inamorata and let out a long, defeated sigh.

"I'm not giving you the satisfaction."

He let out a satisfied rumble in response, rewarding her for her compliance. "Good."

That settled, Fenlin made for the door flap to summon two saarebas. One for Hawke – and one for the Arishok.

Judging from her grip strength and the snapping sounds he had heard at about hook number fifteen, Hawke had broken at least three of the fingers in his left hand.

The elf stood in the sunlight while waiting for the healing mages, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his skin and the memory of the Arishok's unflinching expression as he stood beside his mate. He hadn't let slip any evidence of pain – which must have been considerable – and remained steady as he watched her suffer.

Fenlin smiled to himself as he mused over the Arishok's particular flavor of devotion.

_That's love for you._


End file.
